She’s young, unblemished, and unbruised. Her skin is clear, and so is her mind. She knows nothing. She feels nothing but curiosity, mostly about men. She feels incomplete without him. She’s receptive, patient, and fascinated with everything he says. His hobbies are hers, for she has none. No personality of her own. A blank slate to project onto. A canvas to paint. A mound of clay eager to take shape. Whichever he pleases, whichever he desires. She knows not of pleasure but is pleased by his. She’s quiet and slight, and her ignorance means she will always follow, never lead. Her thoughts are his. Her aspirations are his. Her desires, also his. Her body, too. It bends and moves for his eyes, at his command, the way he likes; the way he prefers. He is her morning and her night: her first thought and last.

I was her once.

He cultivated her and sliced each of her leaves, which was pleasing to his eye but left her with deep wounds. No longer young, she was significantly blemished, with bruises that were truly fractured. She painted herself green and dipped herself in red dye, but eventually, her petals withered. Eventually, they fell. And from the ground, she gathered her past and adorned her own body with it—the way she wanted. She struggled with placement at first; after all, she’s never dressed herself. But with practice, trial and error, she became something different. She knew of pleasure, her own. She became loud and large, with knowledge that she commands with authority. Her aspirations and desires are hers. She bends and moves her own body because it satisfies her, for that is her preference. She goes to bed moisturized, and wakes up moisturized. And if she keeps a man in her life, it’s because he comes with a watering can, not sheers.

I am her now.